


Just a Little Green

by chewysugar



Category: Spider-Man (Comicverse), Spider-Man - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Banter, Bisexual Peter Parker, Dubious Ethics, Established Relationship, F/M, Kissing, M/M, Making Out, Mental Health Issues, Multi, Open Relationships, Recreational Drug Use, Showers, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-16 03:00:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29446686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chewysugar/pseuds/chewysugar
Summary: Steve comes over to Peter and MJ's to partake of some Kind and reacts in an unexpected but not altogether unappreciated way.
Relationships: Peter Parker/Mary Jane Watson, Peter Parker/Steve Rogers
Comments: 2
Kudos: 8





	Just a Little Green

**Author's Note:**

> I added the Mildly Dubious Consent just in case people were put-off by the idea of making out while under the influence of superhero weed. 
> 
> This is story is a sequel to my other fic "The Other Mary Jane."
> 
> Also I'd be remiss if I didn't say the whole spiel about doing drugs if they're not legal and you're not of age--blar de blar de blar it doesn't matter to me because nothing matters in this frightening world.

Soft pillows? Check. Christmas lights on the ceiling? Check. Apple juice for blood sugar emergencies? Double-check. Peter examined the note app on his phone, his eyes falling on the final, most important point.

“Hey, babe?” He called over his shoulder. “Where’s the munchies?”

MJ emerged from their kitchen, arms laden with the wrong side of the convenience store. “Fear not,” she said, depositing her gains onto the coffee table. “For behold, I bring you tidings of great snack.” 

“You’re a goddess.”

“Don’t tell the baddies that or they’ll really be after me.” 

Peter kissed her on the top of her head, and examined the done-up which currently comprised their living room. “Gotta say if things had been like this in Liz’s house for my first time, I probably wouldn’t have freaked out so badly.” 

“I remember that,” MJ said, shaking her loose ponytail back over her shoulder. “You scuttled off to the bathroom and wouldn’t come out for half an hour.” 

“It felt like days to me.” 

“Good thing you had Gwendy there to talk you down.” MJ plopped herself onto the armchair and stabbed her straw into a box of apple juice. “Was this before or after the radioactive hickey?”

Peter was too keyed up in anticipation to make himself as comfortable. “Before. I’d have been able to inhale all of Liz’s white girl stash and been completely kosher otherwise.” Enhanced blood made him more immune to the forces of inebriation than your average man about Midtown. It was why, when he’d started partaking again at Mary Jane’s insistence, he’d had to turn to Johnny Storm for more a potent herb. 

“Does this mean Cap’s going to need thrice the amount?” MJ’s lips captured the straw again, and Peter was too distracted by the sight to form coherent thought. Only when those stormy green eyes narrowed over the top of the carton did he shake himself from his inappropriate reverie. 

“Uh, I’m not sure.” Peter rubbed a hand on the back of his neck, remembering the night Steve had caught him green-handed on a rooftop in the garment district. “All I know is he’s down with it, and he hasn’t snitched me out.” 

Mary Jane’s lips twitched. “That’s strange, given that people took _Reefer Madness_ literally back in his day.” 

“Did they?”

“From what Aunt Anna tells me they did.”

“Aunt Anna ain’t that old, baby.”

Mary Jane smirked. “Careful with that contraction, tiger.” 

“What are you going to do, grammar police? Frisk me?”

“Don’t tempt me.”

“You won’t get the chance. We’ve got company.” His senses had alerted him to the floor below. Someone was keying in their apartment code. Sure enough, a moment later, the call box let out a flat drone. Peter hastened to respond, knowing who would be on the other end. 

“Uh, hello Peter.” Steve’s awkwardness around modernity was heightened by his trepidation over what was a barely tolerable offense in America, and completely legal in Canada. “I’m here.”

Peter wrinkled his nose in amusement. “Come on up, Stevie.” 

“Stevie?” MJ opened a packet of licorice and fished out several ruby red nibs. “White Witch, or Red and Blue spandex?”

“Red and Blue spandex.”

“He sounded nervous.”

“Fish out of water. It’s actually kind of cute once you get used to it.”

MJ laughed. “Cute, is he? Well alright, but remember the terms of the contract, tiger. I get to watch and also film.”

God, he loved this woman beyond scientific measure. “I don’t recall shaking hands on it,” Peter said airily. Seconds before Steve knocked on the door, Peter moved to opened it. 

Dressed in his pedestrian bomber jacket and jeans, Steve filled the doorway with his heft. Yet he looked the very picture of a frightened teenager about to do something naughty—which, if Peter were being perfectly honest—he was. 

“Good to see you, Cap,” Peter ushered Steve across the threshold with an easy gesture. Smart-alecky remarks danced temptingly on the tip of his tongue, but he reigned them in. He didn’t want to make Steve anymore uncomfortable than he already was. God only knew Peter had been way out of his depth all those years ago at Liz’s party. 

Steve looked around at the apartment—he’d never been over here despite the two of them having been on the same time for years. His eyes fell on the Christmas lights strung from the ceiling as well as the accoutrements on the coffee and end tables. Anyone would think by his probing gaze that he was walking to a firing squad. 

“Don’t worry,” Peter said, “the beast is still in its cage.”

Steve shot Peter a questioning look, and MJ said, “We didn’t want to intimidate you right out the bat by having the paraphernalia present.”

As if noticing her for the first time, Steve’s posture straightened—years of military protocol dictated he make himself dignified in presence of a lady. All that was missing was a salute. 

“Miss Watson,” he said with respectful gravity. “You look lovely as always.” 

Highly amused, MJ looked from Steve to Peter and back again. Her lips trembling from the effort it took not to smile, she said, “And you look lovely too, Captain Rogers.” 

“Oh my god,” Peter muttered. “Pop a squat, Steve. Did you eat before you came over like I told you?”

Steve sank onto the sofa, relaxed somewhat now. “Yes, I had some of those meals you put into the science oven.” 

“Good old science oven,” MJ reached for another licorice. “We’ve got all the works here at any rate. Depending on which way you swing, you’ll end up with the munchies seriously big time.” 

“Munchies?” Steve frowned, then brightened like a 40 watt bulb. “I read about those. Hunger cravings you get from using the...the stuff.” A pink tinge glowed across his face. 

Peter and MJ glanced at each other, the same train of thought running through their minds: Captain America was adorable when flustered. Not that Peter would risk frightening him by broaching the subject. 

Speaking of which...

“We’re going to go over some ground rules.” Peter took a seat next to his house-guest. “First thing’s first: you tell us if you don’t want to do this, capiche? Me and MJ aren’t going to force your hand if you’re at all hesitant, okay?”

Steve considered for a moment. “I want to do this,” he said at length. “If it’s anything like you told me, it might help.” 

Mary Jane picked up the thread of conversation. “Either way, nobody’s going to make you do anything you’re not okay with, okay? Even if you’re partaking and you start to feel unwell, you tell us and we’ll pull the brakes. Nobody here is going to make fun of you, and we’re definitely not going to go telling it on the mountain.”

“Which brings me to the second point,” Peter said. “We don’t know what affect this stuff will have on you. It’s been specially cultivated for folks like you and me, but you’re super soldier serum might be too potent to absorb anything even this strong. From what I heard you can’t get drunk if you tried and I can’t guarantee that you’ll feel anything tonight.” 

Again, Steve mulled over what he was being told. Peter liked that about Cap—he wasn’t brash like Tony or an impossible himbo like Thor. Contrary to his image as the bullet-taking brother of Uncle Sam, he weighed his options. 

“I still want to try,” Steve finally said. “There’s things up here—“ he rubbed his forehead—“and in my body sometimes...I just need to see if there’s some way to make it easier to handle.” 

_So strong on the outside_ , Peter thought. _But he’s just a squishy nougat on the inside same as the rest of us._

“Alright.” Peter got to his feet. “I’ll be back with the loot.” He heard Steve begin chatting up MJ—questioning her about how long she’d been partaking and if it really did make sex as great as Peter had claimed. Half-way between the linen closet where he kept their stash hidden and the living room, an inescapable giggle wriggled out of Peter’s mouth. 

He and his girlfriend were going to get high with Captain America. If that wasn’t the most ridiculous turn in a life filled with twists, he didn’t know what was. 

A moment later he set the goods on the coffee table next to the mountain of junk food. Steve, in the middle of describing the media circus around Louis Armstrong’s arrest for possession, abruptly stopped talking. He eyed the small canister, the two metallic grinders, the papers and MJ’s hot pink pipe as if they'd just emerged from the Ark of the Covenant. 

Again, Peter found it utterly endearing. Steve was like Bambi learning to walk for the first time. 

Swallowing down a lump that had crawled into his gullet, Steve said, “You’ll show me how it works, won’t you?” 

“Of course,” Mary Jane said brightly. “Consider us your designated drivers. Only don’t drive under the influence.” She shot a dark look Peter’s way. “I have a hard enough time getting this one to not go swinging with a buzz.”

Peter pressed a hand to his chest. “I told you I like the way it feels.”

“Typical man,” MJ sighed, opening her canister. 

“W-wait a minute!” Steve looked wildly at MJ. “I thought you said it was for people like me and Peter!” 

MJ jammed a small cluster into the jagged tines of her grinder. “And so it is, but I’m not stupid enough to go trying it. This is just regular stuff. I mean, as regular as you can get when you share the same supplier as Mia Khalifa.”

“This,” Peter said, gesturing with his plastic tub of shrub, “is ours for the night, my man. Grown in the gardens by one Johnny Storm from a little baby bud. I guess he figured people with special abilities need a little somethin’ somethin’.” 

He felt Steve’s eyes follow his movements like a homing beacon. Peter made sure to make his movements as deliberate as possible as he spread the dried flower in the grinder. 

“Slow and steady.” MJ had already tucked some green into the bowl of her pipe. “Just like a man should be.”

Steve blinked. “Is that why you’ve stayed together?”

“Absolutely.” Mary Jane grinned like a devil when she saw the outrage mar Peter’s face. “It’s got nothing to do with a generous nature, wicked sense of humor or a porn star dong.”

“Is that so?!” Peter crossed his arms over his chest as Steve ducked his head to hide his chuckle. 

“Tiger, relax.” MJ flicked the light of her Zippo. She cocked her head in Steve’s direction. When Peter saw just how much more relaxed their guest was, he cottoned onto his beloved’s little scheme—she’d just wanted to get Cap to feel comfortable. 

But a man had his pride.

“Hmph.” Peter spread the grinds over a piece of rolling paper. “Fine, but I’m holding that last remark over your head.”

MJ exhaled—slow and cool and practiced from years of the habit. Had Humphrey Bogart walked in then and he’d have pegged her as one of those troublesome dames. 

“What?” She purred through the pungent fumes. “Your dong?” 

“Yes.”

“You’re going to hold your dong over my head?”

A most extraordinary sound filled the apartment. It sucker-punched Peter and MJ straight out of the cynical twenty-first century and into a simpler time, where good kids really did get slices of apple pie and the American Dream had yet to somersault into suspended sleep paralysis. 

Only when Peter turned his head did he see that the source of the noise was Steve, and that he was laughing. Really laughing. Not a muffled chuckle, buried by painful self-consciousness. Nor was it the feigned, over the top machismo he broke out only when guys like Tony and Barton laughed first. 

“Wow.” MJ smiled, curled up like a cat in her chair, her pipe now innocently sitting on the end table. “That’s a laugh to kill a lady, Steve. It’s gorgeous.”

Steve went even pinker but the laugh died naturally as opposed to murder via embarrassment. 

“Alright, Doctor Giggles.” Peter rolled the joint between his fingers. “This’ll settle you down pronto.” He made something of a show of his rolling skills—one handed, deft and with a stable roach to boot. All these years later and he still wanted to hang with the cool kids.

“Watch me,” Peter said as he put the joint to his lips. He sparked his own lighter, and inhaled. He had to hand it to Johnny—he’d grown something with a smooth taste. A bit bitter but with a vanilla note afterwards. He let the smoke fill his lungs, then exhaled slowly, smirking at the cloud. 

Then he handed the joint to Steve, who watched him with wide eyes. Steve wrapped his lips over the blunt, and took Peter’s lighter with shaking hands. Then he paused.

“Uh, how will I know? When it’s working?”

“You’ll feel it,” MJ’s voice drifted, languid through the haze and technicolor lights. 

“But how will I—

Peter offered Steve his hand. “Give it a squeeze. If it feels too scary just squeeze my hand and we’ll try and make you comfortable.” 

A sturdy, calloused hand covered Peter’s. 

“You still good?” Peter already felt the ghostly waves of the buzz floating through his mind. 

Steve nodded, and took the joint between his lips. He lit the tip, and then huffed a big breath.

“Hey,” Peter laughed, putting his other hand on Steve’s broad shoulder as he started to cough. “Stay your hand, squire. Don’t gulp like that. Take it slow. Feel it fill your lungs. There you go...that’s it, big guy.” Steve’s back rose as he inhaled at an easy pace. Then, almost as if he were afraid of it, he handed the joint back to Peter. He sat back against the couch, still holding Peter’s hand, and stared at the glimmering lights overhead. 

“I don’t feel anything yet.” 

“You won’t.” Peter heard MJ’s voice as if on the wings of a dream. Damn, she had a sexy voice. Thick like honey with the power to bring a man to his knees and make him come. Through the loose tension of present reality, he looked across the space between them and smiled broadly at the sight of her. 

“If you keep partaking,” MJ went on, every syllable lazy like Sunday brunch, “you get more tolerant. But it’s a fine line to walk. Some people need it too much. Keep it steady, and it’ll be your best friend.” 

“My girl,” Peter sighed, throwing his head back against the back of the sofa. “She’s a regular Emily Dickinson with words.” 

“I had a book of her poetry,” Steve said. “I’m glad people still read Dickinson. Dick. In. Son. That’s a funny name isn’t it? Dickin. Son...”

Peter and MJ both looked at Steve as one. His head, tilted back, was less rigid than before. The grin on his face spread like peanut butter on toast. 

“There ya go,” Peter said happily. “Someone’s flying now.” 

As first times went, Captain America’s was creamy as butter. No signs of panic made themselves known, and soon he, Peter and MJ were floating on the same shared stasis. Lights of blue, orange, yellow, red and green glowed in soft focus, blinking in easy harmony with each changing circuit. A sense of safety enveloped the three of them, the smoke binding like a hug. 

Steve rolled his head lazily from side to side. He seemed transfixed by every little thing that happened around him, as if experiencing them for the first time. 

“So much better,” he sighed, and he said it often. 

“Upstairs?” Peter brushed a hand through Steve’s hair. He shot a furtive glance at MJ, who kept right on smiling. 

“Better.” Steve leaned into the touch like a dog long since starved of affection. “Not so much noise. Not so much confusion or memories. It’s there but...” He waved a hand in front of his face. “Just passing by now. Like I’m watching traffic.”

At some point, someone—probably MJ as Peter was too far in his roll to have mustered the willpower—turned the stereo system on. An old 90’s song floated through Peter’s ears like a breeze. 

“. _..anyone whoever had a heart...wouldn’t turn around and break it_...”

“Better,” Steve sighed again. His head lolled onto Peter’s shoulder. Again, Peter shared a significant look with MJ. And again, her only response was that enigmatic smile. 

“Getting hungry?” Peter asked.

Steve shook his head, the friction of his hair against Peter’s skin pleasant despite the scratch. 

_"...sweet jane...sweet, sweet jane..."_

“Don’t want to eat. Just want to stay here. You feel good.” He rubbed his forehead against Peter’s throat. “And you smell nice, too.” 

_We’re too high_ , Peter thought, even as his arm subconsciously slid around Steve’s shoulder. _Gotta put this crazy bird back down on the ground_. But mercy did Cap smell good too—scrubbed skin and crisp, citrus soap. 

Peter let the tip of his nose meet Steve’s forehead. Only then did he remember the weight of Steve's hand over his. He threaded his fingers through Steve’s, dazed by the sensation. 

_This is bad_ , he thought, his eyes opening to look desperately MJ’s way for help. _This is very, very bad_. 

“Contract still applies, tiger,” MJ said, sounding a million miles away. “Be my guest as long as I’m sitting right here.” 

“But...”

Electric prickles ran through Peter‘s body as he felt the brush of Steve’s cheek against his. Steve’s free hand traced up and down Peter’s arm, leaving goosebumps in its wake despite the warmth of the room. 

“Please,” Steve whispered. “Please tell me I can.” 

“He’s high,” Peter murmured. “We shouldn’t...and you’re right there, MJ...” God it was messed up. But he’d have to make amends for it later, because right now all he wanted was to know—to feel the kiss of this brave, lost man against his lips. 

So he let himself slip. He let the pot do the work, leading him to the mystery of Steve Rogers’ kiss. Lingering there, Peter felt the soft brush of those lips against his; groaned as Steve’s hand curled into the front of his shirt. Sensation and feeling exploded behind Peter’s eyes, crystallizing from the effects of Johnny’s weed in bright colors and dazzling lights. He wanted to sink into the solitary strength of Steve Rogers—to surrender all conceits of himself; to bend for him; to give into the taboo of betraying all he thought he knew of himself for a chance to feel Steve over him, resilient and sheltering against him, hard and dominating inside of him. 

Peter moaned. Warmth spread in his belly. He felt himself growing hard beneath his sweatpants. This was crazy and dangerous and so fucked up, but he was reckless with wanting it to progress. 

Which was why he knew he had to end it. He drew away from Steve, panting and half-tranquilized. Steve didn’t paw or pull or beg. Instead, he fell against Peter, forgetting about his own heft compared to Peter’s. 

Peter sagged against the arm of the sofa, trying to get his bearings. Steve’s eyes were still open, gazing across the room at something only he could see through the fog of his high. But his heartbeat was steady enough. 

“Now that,” MJ purred, “was a million times better than Christmas.”

Still rendered speechless by the totality of what he’d done, Peter stared at her. Completely lost, he felt the specter of paranoia scratching at the windows of his mind. He’d just made out hardcore with the First Avenger. In front of his girlfriend. While they were high on superhero dope. 

“We’re bad people,” Peter breathed. It was wrong. Wrong wrong wrong. He shouldn’t have let Cap think it was okay to cross that line under the influence. He hadn’t been in his right frame of mind, and that meant that Peter...

“Oh god.” Revulsion turned Peter’s stomach the wrong way around. He was a monster. He—

Steve lifted his head and looked Peter dead on with eyes like crystal blue persuasion. Peter’s recriminations froze dead in their tracks. 

“Don’t start,” Steve said. “I know that look.”

MJ snorted softly. “See? It must be trademark if other people can read it.”

“I don’t think either of you understands what just—

“Bullshit.” Steve’s head came to rest on Peter's chest. More stunned by the profanity than anything, Peter could only lay there helplessly. “It’s still me here, Peter. I wouldn’t have asked for that otherwise.”

“You’re high,” Peter said feebly. 

“But not incapacitated.” Steve shifted, making himself more comfortable. Peter’s face broke into a wave of heat as he felt the unmistakable feeling of Steve’s arousal pressing against him. “I wanted this,” Steve continued softly. “And I’m sorry for doing it in front of your missus—

“Oh, I’m not complaining,” MJ said. “That’s going to be a Pink Cherry thought for months, maybe even years to come.”

Steve chuckled. “I just needed to feel...and it felt good...crossing that wall.”

Too weary and still buzzed, Peter let it drop. Wasn’t as if they could do much about it anyway. Besides, the sensation of Steve’s lips against his hadn’t been entirely unpleasant. It had, in fact, felt very good. 

The music played on, soft and soothing. Soon the rumble of gentle snores alerted Peter to the fact that Steve had fallen asleep. Any other man in such a position would have had to resign himself to awkward extrication or staying thusly pinned until Steve either fell off the couch or woke up. Peter, being possessed of strength greater than Cap’s, simply flexed the bare minimum of muscles and crawled out from under. Steve didn’t stir at the change, and continued to sleep face down on the sofa.

Mary Jane stood at last, and silently took Peter by the hand. She led him to the bathroom, and stripped them both of their clothes. Once they were both naked and holding each other beneath the spray of hot water, Peter began to relax. 

“Are you sure it wasn’t wrong?” The catch in his voice echoed around the bathroom. 

Clearing the water from his eyes, MJ smiled at him. “Steve’s full of surprises, huh?”

“I’ll say.”

“I think you both needed that.”

Peter swallowed, and held her closer. “You’re the only one for me.”

She laughed. “I know that, you gorgeous idiot. But Cap has things he has to work out, and you do too. I don’t think that stuff is nearly strong enough to make a body go out of its gourd. He wanted you for some reason—not that I blame him. If it bothers you, then tell him so. He’s Captain America, tiger. I think he’d understand.”

Peter watched the water circle down the drain, taking his treacherous thoughts with it. 

“Did _you_ want that?” Leave it to MJ to find the linchpin. 

Letting out a shaky breath, Peter said, “From him? Yeah. It felt good, baby. Really good.” The idea of it, the sheer physicality—it was nearly enough to make him hard again. 

MJ laughed. “Well, that’s good news for me. I don’t think anyone’s in any state to hash it out right now. So let’s sleep on it, yeah?”

“Right. Sleep. The sleep for replenishment. Sleep for the purpose of replenishing. Replenishing sleep. That sleep?”

MJ gave him a quick swat on his bare ass. “Yes, Kronk—that sleep.” 

They remained under the spray until the hot water started to give out. With the gentle ebb of the tide, Peter’s buzz crept away from him. MJ had likely been sober for awhile, although there was no telling. 

“I’m going to hit the sack,” she said, wrapping herself in her bathrobe. She kissed him, and then gave a little moan of delight. “How ‘bout that? By law of transference I’ve kissed Captain America now.” 

“Hrmm. By that logic I’ve kissed Flash Thompson, Dwayne Jennings, Alexand—

“Shh, shh, shh.” MJ put a finger to Peter’s lips. “I’m not customer service. Don’t serve me receipts. Are you coming to bed?”

“In a minute. I want to see that our esteemed guest is comfortable.”

MJ moved off to the bedroom, and Peter, towel around his waist, went back into the living room. Steve had rolled over, but was still sleeping soundly. 

Looks like a little Angel, Peter thought, shutting the music and lights off. An angel with sick biceps and abs like a rack of lamb. 

But it was Steve’s face that captured his attention. The softness of it in slumber. Real slumber. Like his laughter, Steve always seemed to operate under a facsimile of sleep. Even though he breathed the right way, the care in his jaw and forehead always weighed heavily against whatever peace he ought to find. 

Now, there wasn’t hide nor hair of those predatory lines. He looked years younger—more the young man he really was. God, by this point Peter was probably older than him in terms of actual age. 

He’d wanted something, an escape. That was clear in his being here tonight at all, and how easy he’d found comfort. And that damned kiss...

Peter’s lips tingled just thinking about it, even as his jaw tightened. It would probably never happen again, sober or otherwise. Somehow that was enough. At least Steve had let himself be honest here. With MJ and with Peter.

Peter brushed Steve’s James Dean blonde hair back, and softly kissed his forehead. 

“At ease, Captain Rogers,” he whispered. Then he stood, returned to his room and to MJ, leaving Steve to what he desperately hoped were comforting dreams. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Let me know what you think!


End file.
